


be my muse; be the lines on my paper, be the paint on my canvas

by alienboyv



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Artist Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens), Depressed Crowley (Good Omens), F/F, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female Crowley (Good Omens), I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, Painting, Pining, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), References to Depression, Sexual Tension, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Smitten Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), lucifer is the definiton of die a hero or live long enough to become a villian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-24 16:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21102416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienboyv/pseuds/alienboyv
Summary: From the juices of Eden fruit and a whispy robe with wings sprouting out to the noxious pigments of the Victorian era and tightly maintained and structured dresses, the serpent has splashed the consistent soft, inviting colors on a canvas, using the principality as her muse.





	be my muse; be the lines on my paper, be the paint on my canvas

**Author's Note:**

> ok ok listen i LOVE those "crowley wrote abt aziraphale" fics SO MUCH  
BUT  
crowley does not like writing/reading. i dont doubt that crowley wouldnt/couldnt write but like.  
what if. instead.....crowley has been DRAWING aziraphale.  
also queen victoria is here and uh. as youll see....idk why. but she is?? really sad?? she described her early years as "melancholy" but idk. based on what i read on her, i just felt like it would make most sense to make her sad???

The demon, Crawly as we know her here, slithers through a tree of fruit she does not remember nor cares for. Craning her neck, she peers at the angel, sitting against rocks next to a pond. Small creatures, what will later be known as forest critters such as rabbits and deers, surround her as a soft lull fills the air. Somehow this angel made the Garden Of Eden, a place of perfection and tranquility, exuberate Love that Crawly hadn't felt since even before the Fall.

Sliding into her human form, Crawly continues to look at the ethereal being. She expected the serene scene to end abruptly, as the soft-faced soldier of a Principality felt Crawly's demonic presence, she was to shiver before unsheathing her flaming sword and attacking the snake in the grass. Instead, she merely scooted onto a particularly soft patch of grass and small flowers. Resting against a mound of grass, she watches the first sunset.

Before Crawly knew it, _it was unconsciously done, swear to Satan_, she was grabbing a low hanging fruit and using its juice to make a portrait on tree bark. The fruit, a lemon, produced a soft yellow. She scratched the outline using a small stick and her sharp claws, the yellow dye of the fruit used to make the lighting and a small bit of blue dye of an Isatis tinctoria to make her eyes pop out. She grabbed a small daffodil, using the sticky juice and her own venom to bind it to the hair of the drawing.

A small rustle against grass startled Crawly from her daze, realizing night had already fallen. The angel stretched, allowing the full length of her wings to be shown in all their glory, before flying up. Crawly was mesmerized by such a divine and loving creature, it was if the stars had fallen into her corporation with the amount of adoration bursting within her for this angel.

* * *

Crawly never grew out her artistic craving nor her fascination with that angel in The Garden. In fact, not only had she never lost track of said angel, the two of them had gained a rapport with one another. Their intellectual wits matched and ideologies separated by celestial politics, they were able to form a bond with each other that neither felt safe enough to admit. For Aziraphale, this included to herself.

They sat in the ark, Crawly holding children and Aziraphale calming the people to sleep.

"I cannot believe you, of all beings, would bring innocent humans onto an ark meant to save them. I do not condone nor will I encourage this behavior but..." She smiled, gently brushing her hand against the cheek of a newborn baby she sent to sleep.

"Demon, remember? Don't follow Upstair's rules, never going to, angel. What I did was demonic; this was a love letter to the Original Sin, signed the snake." Crawly huffed and gently rocked the two young children in her arms. A poorly hidden smile rose against the soft lips of Aziraphale.

"I'm sure you'll receive commendation for this." Crowley snorted.

"I'd better." The night passed, Crawly fell asleep with the human children resting against her. Something inside her told her to wake up, and wake up she did. She almost bolted up, stopping herself when rationality slithered back into her. She grabbed the small bag of her homemade paints, ones made of fruit juices, skins and leaves of vegetation, water dyed with flower's pigments boiled into it, ground gemstone and mineral shards, and animal fat to ensure it would bind to the papers she kept neatly tucked into the front pocket on the bag. 

She hurried to the deck of the ark, only to find Aziraphale there, watching out onto the ocean that had not been there a day ago. Aziraphale simply sighed, and to anyone else, this would have been a sign of serenity and semblance, but it wasn't anyone else watching Aziraphale. It was Crawly. Crawly knew her sighs, she had memorized them for Satan's sake. Crawly also knew better than anyone that it would not be wise to try and converse with the angel. Aziraphale, for all her gentleness and tolerance, had this nasty habit of vehemently rejecting Crawly's camaraderie, especially during moments where her thoughts overcame her and she simply yearned for solitude.

So, Crawly respected her wishes. Silently, Crawly sat nearby, trying to remember the creaks of every single wooden panel. The paper, flapping in the wind and nearly allowing her to have the bag itself to fall into the abyss of an ocean, was pressed against a smooth piece of wood that was also kept in the bag. She grabbed slightly sharpened charcoal, which she would later call a prototype to the pencil, and began to lightly sketch Aziraphale.

Crawly did not only illustrate Aziraphale, obviously, she drew whenever she could. She has made many portraits throughout the centuries and many still-lifes as well, but Aziraphale was her muse. It had begun with Aziraphale and it will, _hopefully never_, end with Aziraphale. Crawly would draw Aziraphale with her eyes closed.

She drew the hair, somehow both flowing but also coming a bit above her shoulder. Aziraphale's curls were one thing about her that drove Crawly mad, both because they were divine on her, and because they were never consistent. Her hair, though staying the same overall shape at all times, was never consistent in the placement of her curls. It was frustrating, but it gave Crawly new excitement every time she drew her.

Her eyes weren't baby blue, they weren't the blue of the sky, rather they were a blue teetering on a grey. _What was the word for that?_ Ah, yes, livid. Despite the alternative meaning, her eyes were calming, like swimming in a river during a cloudy day.

Crawly had only gotten to the torso, where her knees came to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, when suddenly the angel's wings came out and she flew into the sky. She hovered over the ark and watched it like a hawk. Crawly, after carefully placing each supply where they belonged, sneaked back into the bottom quarter of the ark.

She sat down, gathering the children in her arms again, thinking only one thing.

_Oh, my angel. Stay still._

* * *

The Romans had a certain sexual flair to them, well, not exactly sexual. This was a society of families just as well, but nonetheless, the clothes with much more scandalous than they had been in earlier centuries, the foot was meant to arouse, they definitely did not shy away from the consumption of alcohol, and people were not against partaking in sexual activities that were frowned upon, done both for religious reasons and reasons of their own. 

The serpent, now known as Crowley, drunk out of a wooden mug. She sketched lightly onto a thin sheet of paper, she drew of jewelry, fruits, and the finest alcohol of the world.

Suddenly she heard a tender voice, one of unexpected excitement, especially coming from someone that typically avoided all chance encounters.

"Crowley? Is that you? Why I haven't seen you in forever!"

"Aziraphale?" She drawls, taking a sip of the velvety wine. The glasses perched on top of her nose were new, and she realized then that they could possibly hinder the accuracy of her coloring.

"How are you? _Erm_, still a demon?"

"_Am I still a demon_-What else would I be? An aardvark?" She didn't mean for her intoxicated venom to slip out, but once a snake, always a snake. Before she knew it, she was being whisked away to try some oysters.

Now, to go back to the thesis, this was a perfect example of the flair of not only just Rome but also other neighboring nations and empires. _Aphrodisiacs_, those cursed things. Blessed Asmodeus, because who else could it be? Perfect temptation into Lust, he gave Crowley the formula, all Crowley had to do was plug in the numbers.

As you likely already know or are about to find out, oysters are aphrodisiacs.

Crowley knew this, so why did she follow Aziraphale to go try oysters? Oh, it's simple! You see, Aziraphale looked at her happily, hair bouncing and eyes sparkling, and said she _must _try some with such enthusiasm...so, _obviously_, she had no choice.

So here she was, watching as Aziraphale happily ate oysters, her teeth bright and her small, pink tongue peeking out of her mouth. Her mouth became shiny with the slick of the oyster. Her curly hair against the shine of the sun created a halo, making her look even _more_ angelic. Crowley tried one, which was unnecessary, seeing as Aziraphale could be a damn aphrodisiac. Crowley, for some blessed reason, had tried to ignore any Lust she had towards Aziraphale. She truly did try, but once again, her hands knew what her heart did not want to, and she began to draw Aziraphale.

It was not a lie, Aziraphale could be an aphrodisiac. Plump lips against a soft face, with worry lines gracing over her skin. Her hair above her shoulders, allowing you to see much more than long hair could ever, her bounce up and down with every tiny movement. Crowley has already gone on about her hair and eyes and she could again, but we cannot go into another spiral of sappy musings of a lovestruck snake- lest we forget her _body_. Her rounded shoulders lead to her nice, fair arms, both soft due to recent indulgences but strong as evidence to her history, never forget- Aziraphale was one the Guardian of The Eastern Gate for a good reason. Her collarbone lead to her chest, and as much as Aziraphale attempted to cover up, these dresses didn't leave too much to the imagination.

Aziraphale could be compared to the sculptures of Aphrodite, with a soft middle, inviting and warm, and a curvaceous outline. Rolls peeked through her silhouette, giving more hints to the pillow of a stomach underneath that Crowley oh-so longed to love on. Her stomach was plump, just as the rest of her was, it was oh so endearing. Her thighs widened as she sat down, like melting ice cream. Her chest was most certainly bigger than average, doughy, and (like the rest of her) tender - cozy pillows ontop her chest. Aziraphale's breasts suited her, just as soft and full of love as the rest of her, the only thing comparable was her ass-

"Oh dear, I must apologize! I have some duties to attend to, but we will be in touch soon, yes?" Crowley put away her illustration of Aziraphale in her bag and grinned.

"Of course, angel, we'll be in touch." She grabbed onto Aziraphale's hand and kissed it. Aziraphale jerked back and put it against her face, blush already spread down to her collarbone.

"Cheeky demon." She said, no malice within her words.

* * *

Timbuktu, a culturally diverse place of trade and commerce in the Mali Empire, bustling full of people on religious and familial journies. Crowley had always been a fan of trading centers, so for the last few years, she has often found herself in Southeast Asia, West Africa, and the Middle East. Full of religious texts, often those of Abrahamic, Buddhist, Hinduist origins, but typically Islamic text and teaching in this city. Furs, foods, and other trinkets from across the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean would find themselves in this foreign land just as well.

Crowley found those interesting at best, dreadfully boring - even more so than Hell's meetings - at worst. What would typically quip her attention is things such as salt and gold, silver and metals, things that once smelted and grounded, could add a coarse texture to her art or even a smooth liquid look. Sometimes, she liked to add an aroma, whether it be one of spice that could tickle your nostrils or sweet vanilla that could calm even the most agitated soul. However, no matter the profound exchange of culture and knowledge, Crowley often found herself detached and bored to an unnerving degree. She desired to progress, to find something else.

It was a creeping feeling, one that had invaded her person so long ago that she could hardly remember a time when there wasn't this feeling of depravity, this deadening sense of joy. Jovial, was she ever? No, no, she wouldn't pretend there wasn't a time she had felt that, even so, she had no desire to return that place.

That was a place of submission, of obedience, to such an unnerving degree that to question was seen as equal to the worst of deeds. However, this place did not allow escape, rather it allowed solitude. A solitude that had a creek in the door, a creek that allowed grievances and anxieties to slip in and out as they please.

This is where she found herself now, with a desire to be free and mortal. She never could comprehend how they could have fought against servants of the Lord, how they could have fought for freedom and thoughts and to be themself without dedicating their entire self to Her, and now Lucifer sits with a throne, ruling with almost as much of an iron fist as Almighty. Oh, how the mightly truly do fall.

So, she drew. She drew a stone building, a typical Rome home, the point of view up against a window. A row of scrolls and books, some familiar titles scribbled onto them to give a sense of authenticity. She immersed herself in each detail, allowing for her unique imagination to fly even above Almighty. As she added her pigments, giving the background darker browns and tans, even some burgundy.

She splashed dark red onto hair that went down below shoulder blades, golden iris with no snake-slitted pupil. No ugly fangs or scale, no scowl or growl. Soft blond, near white, with livid eyes, chubby and skin lined with wisdom, soft beiges and creams, and even light blues. A soft glow, like an aura, surrounds the being on the paper. Everything else about this was completely human, human and mortal, with a known beginning and an unknown end to their stories.

Humans, since the moment that stone collided with Abel's head, have searched for immortality. Searched for the prolonging of their lives - which, ironically, oftentimes resulted in their own demise. Crowley saw it firsthand herself, in fact, she had been the one who had assisted some. (A job's a job, and what Hell wants, Hell gets.)

Still...Crowley, in all her immortal glory, longed to be a human. Crowley, who had seen almost every single way someone can die at this point in history, wanted to be a mortal. She wanted Aziraphale to be human and mortal with her, she wanted to do what only the poems of Sappho could truly describe. She wanted to be free and she wanted to love the angel, no constraints of hell or heaven. She didn't care if she had to hide it from other pesky humans, it would be different then how it is now. It would be different.

Oh, how she yearned for different.

* * *

The English court, oh, what a wonderfully corrupted and wretched place! Full of all too self-assured disgusting men and smart women used as only eye-candy. The 1400s were absolutely awful, full of death and disease, and way too much discourse. Now, it was still full of discourse, but in the most chaotic and most fun way possible. Crowley wasn't sure she could laugh harder than when Anne of Cleves rejected King Henry VIII, wine squirted out her nose.

"Oh, but don't you think, perhaps, you should...be more critical of Queen Mary? She's killing her people and keeping her sister in jail! She executed Lady Jane Grey, and Jane was only 16! She is burning protestants! We must have humanity, the royals are not exempt from it!" A soft voice snaps Crowley back into reality, _oh no_, is her first thought before walking over to where Aziraphale is.

Aziraphale stands in a group of men and a few women, self-righteous as ever, with only good intentions, of course. Crowley's intuition is to grab Aziraphale by the arm and take her out of this place before she gets herself in trouble. Talking back against the King or Queen is a big no-no, Crowley knows this all too well. Instead, Crowley walks over behind her and coughs, causing Aziraphale to spin around.

"Wh- Oh, my! Crowley, _my_ dear!" _When did she start doing that?_ Crowley only has seconds to think about this before Aziraphale begins going off on a tangent.

"Angel-" She looks at the men behind Aziraphale, who seemed to be whispering things to one another. They stare at Aziraphale, heinous thoughts radiating off of them, particularly those of _blackmail _and a _deal_. Crowley snarls, adjusting her glasses to show her eyes. They jump back, looking at each other before running off, some of the group looking at them strangely while the others looked away with fear racking their bodies and horror shaking them to their core.

"Now, where did they head off to? I thought we were having quite the debate!" Aziraphale clasps her hands together, putting them against her cheek as she stares at the door that had been left open by the two traumatized scoundrels.

"Angel! Why don't we go to this lovely little bakery that recently opened near that royal park, Soho, it's called." She quickly diverted the topic, _definitely_ not noticing the way Aziraphale bounced with joy at that invite.

Suddenly, their food had come and gone, Aziraphale tiny moans of pleasure were muffled by a piece of cloth. They sat at a table on the outside and Crowley began doodling, using a new compound to see how well they would do as shading and lighting. Just like all times, she was completely gone, focusing on _art_ and _art alone_. She hadn't even noticed the papers being sneakily dragged out of her bag.

"_My dear!_" Crowley whipped her head up, looking at the angel for what she had been so stunned by. _Oh fuck._

"Listen, angel, I can expl-"

"These are gorgeous, Crowley!" Now Crowley was the stunned one, staring incredulously at Aziraphale. _Could this mean...?_ Aziraphale turned the papers around and handed them to Crowley.

A waterfall, surrounded by booming wildlife and blooming vegetation, the water having accents of purple or light blue with the plants and animal having a light blue and soft purple glow. She turns the page, thinking it must be this one or the next one that stunned the angel.

A stone statue of a man standing to attention, his sword drawn and in the hand of the arm above his hands. His other hand on his hip, chest puffed out, and head pointing upwards. The lower half of him obscured by layers of snow, going right above his hip and hand on the side left and going above his want on the other side, as the statue seems to be leaning. The sky behind him pitch black, with only a few stars shining. Amongst all the blacks, greys, and whites, a single red, bloody handprint popped out.

_It must be the next one_, she thought with dread filling her gut.

Instead, what she met was a dove and a snake. The snake curling around the dove protectively, pastel flowers and ferns surround them and the glare of a morning sun beats down upon them. The snake is looking down at the dove, the dove looking up at the snake. It was unmistakable what this represented, the snake looked exactly like Crowley as a snake and doves represented the Lord and all things heavenly-

Unmistakable to anyone but Aziraphale, that is.

"Those are lovely, dear; I always knew you doodled but I never realized you were _this_ dedicated and talented!" Crowley's mouth dried and her jaw dropped. She was both relieved Aziraphale hadn't seen any drawings of her, yet saddened by the fact this didn't mean...

"Ngk, uh, thanks." She said, trying to come across distant and nonchalant, completely unaffected by the praising of the beautiful Angel.

"Your style is so different from the artist of this century! It is not overly realistic, it is certainly realistic in how you can tell what everything is and it looks right, but it has your own flair to it!" A bell rang, signifying that it was 6:00 PM. The angel began packing up in a rush. "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry about this! I have a meeting with Gabriel now! I almost forgot!" She lifted up the hem of her skirt, allowing her to walk faster, waving her tiny, chubby hand at Crowley.

Crowley sighed. "See ya, angel."

* * *

Crowley stood next to newly crowned Queen Victoria, who she had become cordial with, to the dismay of the controlling Duchess of Kent and comptroller John Conroy.

"How's it feel to be queen, eh, Tori?" The queen whipped around to the demon, surprised by the sudden appearance of her.

"Oh...it's just you, Antonia." She said, paranoia leaving her face and melancholy replacing it. "Queenhood has barely been anything, seeing as I was only crowned a week ago."

"You excited?" The queen sat, shoulders straight and her posture perfect, just as she had been taught. She simply looked in front of her, still as a statue. Crowley sighed, extending a hand for Victoria to grab onto. She took said hand and stood up, nodding at her to imply gratitude, and brushed her hands against her dress.

Her dress was a piece of pristine and elegant fashion, though more fitting of the 1810s rather than the 1830s. Almost provocative, at least in comparison to earlier times, showing of the shoulders. Her bodice has faint stripes going into her waistline, with frills across her neckline and a high-waisted skirt that came just below her bust. The skirt looked simple enough, but fanciful patterns danced along the area just about her knee. Her sleeves, short and puffy, with a bit of frill just above the puffed up sleeve and a nice ribbon in the back of each sleeve. She looked like the epitome of grace, of elegance, of intelligence and cleverness...and perhaps she was.

Dreadful silence filled the room, an ache escaping her mind and allowing Crowley to feel that all too familiar feeling. Crowley put a hand on her shoulder, trying to give her as much comfort as she knew she could accept.

Crowley had never accepted to care so much for this young girl, seeing as how she was expected to attempt to corrupt as many monarchs and heirs as she could. She met Victoria in 1827 while talking to John Conray. She was a bright young girl, albeit secluded and very much in her own head. She constantly seemed to be thinking of something.

She stared at Crowley, over-due curiosity settling into her features.

"Antonia, if I may ask, how have you been? You spare no details about yourself, we only discuss the current events and me. I am not one of arrogance or of vanity, but I am one of curiosity. You must excuse me, but I only know your name, and I have known you for years. In fact, you have yet to age throughout any of those years, not a single new wrinkle or worry line has appeared on your face. Why? You cannot keep secrets from me, we're comrades, are we not?" Crowley was surprised by this outburst. She spoke with such determination, Crowley almost felt compelled to tell her the truth.

Suddenly, a knock interrupted the interrogation. "You may come in."

A guard stood next to her visitor, "You requested Ms. Fell's presence, yes?"

"Why, yes I did. You may come in, Ms. Fell. You are excused, sir." The guard nodded, holding the door open for Ms. Fell.

"Your majesty, Victoria, may I ask why you require me?" The soft voice came through the door, her hair in a simple (for the time) up-do, wearing a cream-colored 1837 style dress comes in. "Crowley?!"

"Aziraphale..." She smiled awkwardly, trying to figure out how to explain her presence. Victoria looked at both of them.

"I suppose you two are acquainted?"

"Well- No- But-" Aziraphale stuttered out, as Crowley sputtered incoherent noises out.

Victoria rolled her eyes. "Am I suppose to gather something from that?" Crowley coughed into her hand, making a quick decision.

"Not personally, just through some...mutual friends." Crowley lied, hoping that would be good enough for Victoria.

It wasn't, they both knew that, but Victoria could interrogate her about this later.

"As we were discussing, I called you in here to discuss some matters I believe are within your realm of knowledge." Crowley raised an eyebrow at Victoria and Aziraphale. Victoria sighed, agitated. "Ms. Aziraphale Fell is a prominent political voice for the people, has been since my eldest uncle, King George IV, was made regent." Aziraphale nodded at Victoria's words. 

"Of course...only since then?" Crowley smirked, trying to smother the laugh in her throat. Aziraphale glared at Crowley, silently telling her to zip it up.

"Oh, well, how do you two know each other?" Aziraphale smiled.

"We met in my youth, she was acquainted with my mother and her comptroller." Crowley mimicked Aziraphale's nod.

"Anyways, let us discuss this." She walked over to the satin and cotton sofas with a black rim and white interior. She sat down and motioned for Aziraphale to sit down as well. "You may stay if you so please." She directed at Crowley. Crowley gulped, nodding and sitting on the opposite couch from them.

She so desperately wanted to stare into space, so desperately wanted to ignore the sudden itch to draw. She obviously didn't, so she grabbed her paper and pen, using a lighter lead as the sketch. It was of Queen Victoria, no crown, talking to a woman of the people, Aziraphale, one who in any other world would not ever be allowed to be close to Victoria's level. Their conversations were full of respectful disagreements and understanding of each other's opinions, one of experience and one of harsh teachings.

Victoria leans into Aziraphale, signifying a sense of comfort around the Angel, allowing her muscles to relax as she moved to her arms to portray her thoughts. Aziraphale sits, head tilted in a way that means either observing and pondering, one hand on her lap, the other lifted up in a respectful manner to give out a question. Lighting was minimal, as the seats were on the opposite side of the room as the windows, but shading was harsh. She made it dark, making sure that the light-colored clothes would stand out against the darker tones, their persons being the focus of the portrait. By the time their conversation was done with, it was dark and Crowley had finished the drawing.

"Oh, I will request a carriage for both of you. Have a good night, I hope to see you soon." Aziraphale nodded and Crowley gave a thumbs up, walking away with Aziraphale.

"You two seemed very close," Aziraphale said, tone unfamiliar to Crowley. "Anyone else I should know about?"

"Not any important to you, angel. As if you don't have as many, if not more, connections than me." She paused. "At least within the political and philosophical sphere."

"Perhaps, perhaps not."

"You know, angel..." She lowered her eyelids and leaned into Aziraphale, whose face blushed _wonderfully_. "I never thought you would sully your graces with the wealth. I thought you hated the rich."

"I do not! I am an angel, I do not hate anyone!" She huffed, crossing her arms. She exhaled through her nose before continuing. "I do not hate the rich, rather, I care for those less fortunate. I am trying to be a heavenly influence among those with wealth, in hopes they will give away their riches. It oh so happens that Victoria was crowned recently, before this point she likely didn't have much control over any riches she has." She begins rambling.

"No need to defend yourself, angel, I get it. I truly do." They stepped outside the castle gates, a guard holding open the carriage door. Crowley bowed, "Angels first." Aziraphale flushed, mumbling a thank you before stepping in. Crowley stepped in as well, seated next to her. The ride was silent for the most part, they both stared out the window (and at each other, just...not at the same time.) Before they knew it, the ride was over.

"This your stop, Ms. Crowley?" The coachman called back.

"Sure is, Jacque." She nodded off to Aziraphale before stepping out of the coach. She stepped around the carriage, preparing to step into the small house she '_purchased_' a few years back. As she walked by Aziraphale's side and the carriage was about to head off, Aziraphale called out of the window.

"You know, you're allowed to visit the bookshop, right?" She said, just as the carriage went off, ducking back into the coach to avoid falling.

Crowley just stood there, stunned. She smiled, waving to the already gone carriage. Her entire being felt warm.

* * *

Crowley had never felt paranoid before, at least not to this degree. She was pacing back and forth across her flat, she knew they could catch them at any moment. She knew this, and she hadn't thought much of it, she felt as though the two of them had taken all the necessary precautions. Then the asked, asked about the angel called Aziraphale. They sounded suspicious of how in all the millenniums she had spent on earth, she had barely mentioned the angel in any reports. They knew Aziraphale was still on earth, and they suspected she was in the same region as Crowley, so to put a stop to any demonic temptations or influences.

She needed a plan B. If push came to shove, she couldn't just die normally, that would simply discorporate her or injure her. She needed Holy Water.

She knew Aziraphale would never give this to her, she presumed it would be because she would see it turning traitor on heaven, giving the adversary what they want. What Crowley didn't know is, while, yes, it was partially that, it was mostly her feelings towards Crowley.

...but Crowley doesn't know this, Crowley sees their relationship as her being in love with Aziraphale while Aziraphale is, at best, affectionate towards her. So, we must ignore this for the time being. We must completely immerse ourselves in Crowley's head, one of paranoia, (not so) unrequited love with the enemy, and of desensitized emotions that she so longed to return to.

Crowley isn't being daft, rather she is being overly precautious. This is usually Aziraphale's job, worrying. She thought, her lip beginning to bleed as she picked at the skin with her sharp teeth. Crowley was all sharp-edges and utterly serpentine features, she hated this about herself. Being a demon did not bother her, rather the outcome of is does. Seen as a monster, they are, when they didn't do anything wrong...most of them, at least. 

So now, here she stands, frozen and shaken to her core by a minuscule knock on her door. She grabbed the nearest sharp object, hoping discorporation would hinder whatever demon or angel could be waiting behind that door. The door is opened slowly, warry and serpentine eyes hidden by glasses pop out from the inside of the flat.

"...Aziraphale? What in Satan's name are you doing here? Isn't this, y'know, dangerous? Or a vile disrespect to the honor of Upstairs?" Aziraphale shushed her, walking in.

"Oh, hush, will you? I simply came by the discuss some things. You are...the only being who really understands me, seeing as we both have been on earth for about the same time."

"Correct you are, angel." She tosses the object aside, closing the door. The conversation was utterly humdrum, full of updates and anecdotes and other trivial information that was better saved for a meeting of importance. "Angel, what did you actually come here for?" Suddenly, Aziraphale's nervousness increased exceptionally, her anxious demeanor increased, and her face pinkened.

She has been caught red-handed, with no discernible way out, she mumbled something under her breath. Crowley leaned in and put a hand on her hand.

"Angel...I don't know what _mfmm_ means." Aziraphale chuckled before her face went from pale pink to blood red. She jerked her hand away and twiddled her thumbs in her cotton gloves. She mumbled again before a sudden outburst spilled out of her,

"Dear, could you, if you so please, that is--" She breathed in. "...draw me?" Her doe eyes stared up at Crowley, face pink, each wrinkle and worry line squishing with her furrowed brows. She was so - oh what was that word that was so Aziraphale? - _darling_. Her bashfulness was so much better than her anxiousness, it made Crowley's heart explode from all the adoration. This precious angel, she was beyond supernal, she was _ambrosial_. She was like a drink from the sweetest nectar, every moment with her was a mere sip, her coy and august behavior made Crowley _high_. She sublime, her divine and gorgeous aura was better than any wine in the w-

"I'm so sorry, dear, I must have offended you. I will leave at once if you so desire." Crowley shook her head fervently, pupils dilating behind her glasses.

"Not at all, angel, let me. I would be honored to." She winked at the angel, whose face felt hotter than the sun. She got out her newest canvas and stand, gathering the paints she acquired ever since the 1700s. "This'll take a while." As she unscrewed each cap, the strong chemical smells burned her nose and the noxious fumes filled the room.

"We have all the time in the world." Her face was the easiest, seeing as she knew it like the back of her hand. Her hair was pulled into a traditional and simple up-do, at least for curly hair. Aziraphale wore a light blue dress, with cream and beige shades accenting it. This era's fashion, though definitely not unlike previous eras - just done more effectively, was marked by the increase in the difference between the waist and hips. The waist was meant to be as small as possible, and skirts huge - held together by highly developed contraptions, numerous petticoats, and more than imaginable undergarments.

Aziraphale's bodice covered all the way up to her neck, with light blue and cream patterns on the front and a white cotton dress shirt underneath, only peaking out at her neck. The sleeves were slimmer than the previous years had been, though definitely not form-fitting. As she finished up the angel herself, she added heavenly hints, both as a compliment and a sort of inside joke. She had always been a fast artist, as well as a demon with the power to miracle paint dry, she finished this within 5 hours.

"Sorry, this took so long, angel. Wanted this to look just right." Aziraphale stretched, walking over to the portrait. She gasped, hands covering her mouth. "Angel...?"

"Darling...this...this is beautiful. You made me look so alike and, somehow, _gorgeous_!" Before Crowley could protest her self-deprecating slip, Aziraphale turned her head and looked at her adoringly. Crowley's words got caught in her throat. "My dear, you have artistic abilities and genius unlike any I've ever seen before."

Crowley nearly fainted right then and there.

* * *

Crowley woke up, stretching her body before looking on her phone. Only a few texts from Adam and the rest of the Them, who had a group chat with her and Aziraphale (if she ever used her phone, that is. So it's really just the Them and Crowley.) All obscure, surrealist memes not even she understood. Her drawing tablet and sketchbook along with her pencils, pens, markers, paints, and masking tape. She had recently been very into the newer, modern art supplies. She popped on her crop top and her stupidly skinny jeans before walking into the kitchen of the cottage.

The kitchen and conjoined living room, a cozy place with a very specific Aziraphale aesthetic. Aziraphale's favorite books lined up the living room, a small television in front of a coffee table. The couch was a very pale blue. In the kitchen, while more sleek and modern in terms of technology, had cookbooks all over it. It was as cozy as an American southerner's grandma's kitchen.

The angel stood there, on a stool in an attempt to reach for a certain spice. Crowley took time to admire her for a few seconds. She was in a high-waisted cream-colored skirt with small stitches along the seams just to give it a homely feel, which reached her knees. As well, she wore a blue-almost white- sweater that was tucked into her skirt. After getting a good look, Crowley reached above her, grabbing the spice and handing it to Aziraphale.

"Thank you, my darling!" She kissed Crowley on the cheek before hopping down. Crowley wrapped her arms around her angel, resting her head on top of her.

"Whatcha cookin', good lookin'?" Aziraphale softly chuckled, lightly hitting Crowley's arm with the back of her hand as she stepped away.

"It's a Mediterranean dish I had years ago with this lovely poet. I was caring for his mother at the time, as thanks, he cooked me a family dish that been long forgotten. He even gave me the recipe!" She opened one of her cookbooks, over the years she had received many recipes and collected them in these little scrapbooks. It was a fairly simple, though precise, recipe. "Oh, you must try it!"

"Nah, I'm good, angel. Thanks any-" She looked down to a pouting face looking up at her. "_Fine_. You know exactly what you're doing, you bastard." She said all this right before kissing the bastard angel's forehead.

"I love you, dearest." Crowley smiled before going back into their bedroom, grabbing her supplies. Her bag...felt lighter. _What the-_ She began panicking, thinking of the last place she had it out, as she searched fruitlessly for oldest collection of sketches. She suddenly ran into the living room, busting open the door.

"Ang-" The site in front of her paralyzed her.

Aziraphale...looking at her sketchbook.

"I don't recognize this book..." She said, out loud to herself. She opened the cover before Crowley could snatch it from her.

"Angel, w-" She stopped as a gasp hit her. "I can explain this!"

"Crowley..." Astonishment filled her eyes. "...is this from Eden?!" She asked, stunned and excited.

"...yes...?" She hesitated to answer this, her face reddening with shame.

"Oh, darling, are you embarrassed? Please don't be, I would love to see the rest of these!" She smiled, innocent intentions but unknowingly killing Crowley with the knowledge of what is in there. "Oh- wait! I have something for you." She sat down the book, walking across the room.

She went to the furthermost bookshelf, grabbing a light brown book with dark brown stitches at the spine and seams. She handed it to Crowley. Anachronistic was the best descriptor for it, this felt like something you would find in your ancestor's belongings from the early 1900s. She opened it up, perfect cursive met her eyes as she flipped each page.

Exquisite imagery with fanciful language danced along the pages, talk of a tall red-head beauty and the urge to throw all animosity away and fall into their arms. Separations of people, millenniums of battles, an unlikely meeting, unexpected rapport and affections imminently found within this unruly demon who stole the angel's heart. Star-crossed lovers that could put Shakespeare to shame.

Sonnets upon sonnets, poems of yearning and want - to the likes of _Sappho. _Realizations of returned affections, melancholic writings of having to simply put aside both beings' feeling for their own safety. Regrets and confessions, thoughts that spanned across years burned into her eyes and suddenly she was staring up at the angel with tears in her eyes.

"Angel..." Aziraphale looked up at her, grabbing her face. She kissed her, softly, only heating up once the other leaned into it.

"I showed you mine. If you feel comfortable enough to let me see..." She grabbed the sketchbook. "I would love to look at it. As if I could be any more embarrassing than mine was."

"That was amazing, angel, have you ever thought of being a writer? Besides that," She put her arm around the angel's waist. "I think it would be most fun if looked at it together. just tap out if it's too much." Aziraphale sat them both on the couch, snorting.

"I'm so ecstatic! You're allowing me to see such personal pictures into your heart..." She flipped a page.

"Only for you, _my muse_."

**Author's Note:**

> i like how crowleys a snake and like yknow. "snake in the grass". but if u think crowley was ever fake abt their genuine love and friendship for aziraphale ur WRONG.  
also!! objectification is bad but crowley already knew aziraphale and still saw her as a person (well, angel). she was just Thirsty.  
...azi is kinda short. shes 5'5 here (crowley is 6'0 - 6'4 in heels because. height difference.)  
idk how people painted before. yknow. paint. so i basically just found fruits/flowers that made certain dyes.  
rip to anyone well-versed in that sorta thing but im different (ignorant in where dyes/paints come from).  
i based queen victoria's dress based on the portrait of her from 1833. Princess Victoria and Dash by George Hayter. tho im pretty sure it resembles 1810s fashion more than 1830s??
> 
> this took me some time and a lot of work, so thank you for reading!! <3  
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